The King is Dead
by livewiresandwildfires
Summary: An injury like this would keep Alex out of the field, maybe forever. That hurt more than Alex thought it would. He shook in Yassen's arms, his entire body shuddering with the loss. He would never be as good at anything as he was at being a spy, and he would never be a spy again. / Slash / Rated T/M
1. Fall From Grace

**The King Is Dead**

 **Summary:** An injury like this would keep Alex out of the field, maybe forever. That hurt more than Alex thought it would. He shook in Yassen's arms, his entire body shuddering. He would never be as good at anything as he was at being a spy, and he would never be a spy again.

 **Disclaimer:** Alex Rider, his universe, and all associated characters and plot lines belong to Anthony Horowitz. Any recognizable works, references, or quotes are credited to their original creators.

 **Warnings:** Established slash relationship, slash intercourse, age gap, strong language, injuries, violence, underaged drinking and irresponsible use of drugs.

 **Rated:** T/M (subject to change)

* * *

Alex thought it was probably nice out - could see the faded strip of sunlight falling through the crack between floor length curtains. It must be sunny, but he was too lazy to get up and check. He just wanted to lie there, warm under the covers, enjoying a single moment of inactivity and thinking about something as idle as the weather.

Opportunities to rest and relax were few and far between. He cherished each and every one. He especially cherished when he could share these moments with a certain someone else…

An arm wrapped around him, moving over the base of his ribs, running up his chest. Fitting comfortably around him, moulding to him. Perfect fit, like a glove. Fingers intertwined with his, and he couldn't help the contented sigh that escaped him. This was nice - bliss, even.

Abruptly, a harsh rattling noise cut through his constructed arcadia. Alex and Yassen groaned in unison, both getting jolted from their perfect little paradise world. People like them only got perfect in glimpses, it would seem. Mere snapshots of peace.

Alex extracted himself from the blankets, ignoring Yassen's protests and pleas. Ignoring the warm and welcoming hands that tried to pull him back to bed.

He placed bare feet on cool, hardwood floor, then knelt. His hand scrambled around, searching for his mobile phone. He found it still encased in the back pocket of the blue jeans he had been wearing earlier - discarded carelessly across the room.

The cell was still vibrating - a phone call. Looking at the display, Alex scrunched his nose in annoyance.

"MI6?" Yassen asked, now propped up on his side, head tilted towards him. Blankets falling down his chest to his waist.

"MI6," Alex confirmed. He could already feel his good move evaporating.

He watched the call ring out, thinking it would be a waste of time to answer. He knew what they'd say, he knew how they'd say it. They would summon him to the bank. It's an emergency. Urgent. We need you, ASAP. Alex knew the drill.

"Call me when you get back?" Yassen asked. He, too, knew the drill. Understood that Alex had to go and probably wouldn't be home any time soon. It was one of the things Alex loved about him, the ability to simply understand. To be able to comprehend the life Alex lived. To not question.

"Of course," Alex nodded and smiled, then averted his eyes to the floor. He gathered his clothes, pulling them on hastily. He gave Yassen a kiss to say I love you - aware that it would be the last one for an undetermined amount of time. And if things went badly, maybe the last one ever. That was always a possibility, but they both tried not to think about it. When he pulled back, Yassen released him reluctantly.

Before he left, he made a stop at the window, pushing the curtains to the sides. He'd been wrong; it wasn't sunny. London was a grey fog, the clouds all fallen from the skies above. Torn down from the atmosphere.

Rain was falling, looking like the flickering static of an old television tuned into a channel it didn't have. The strip of light he had seen from the bed, that he had mistaken for sunlight, was in fact from the lonely lamppost outside the building; like a solitary lighthouse in a storm.

Alex frowned. He had been looking forward to some sun.

* * *

He ought to be careful what he wished for. If it was sun he wanted, it was sun he got - not that he had the time to enjoy it.

MI6 had sent him off to the south of France - one of his favourite places, where he'd gone on holiday many times as a child. With Ian and Jack. Once with Tom. Later, with Sabina. A place where, under different circumstances, he would have grown up; _completely_ unaware of the world of espionage, he would have been.

Ignorant, but blissful.

He would have parents. Maybe even siblings. Pets. He'd speak french. He wouldn't be a spy. Probably, he would have been quite happy; but then, if you had asked Alex a few days ago (lying in bed in a warm embrace), he would have said he _was_ happy. He wouldn't have gotten _that_ if he had grown up in France.

It was almost poetic, Alex would later think, that this should be the place it happened. This little slice of heaven - a place that held such good memories, and had been meant for even more. A place that held aspects of his current life, and whispers of the life he could have had. Streets he could have lived in, people he could have grown up with, schools he could have attended, places he could have called his own.

This place that was supposed to be the pinnacle of change in his life, years ago, is the place where his life changed forever in the present day.

Coincidence, perhaps. But Alex didn't believe in coincidence. Maybe it was more like fate.

* * *

Alex had been on many missions, each one demanding he lose another part of himself. Each villain more eccentric than the last; each plot for world domination more elaborate, more insane. All of his missions were like this, in many ways his missions were practically identical. Yet, each one was very different. Different losses, different threats, different motives, different ways to cope. Each one occupied a different space in Alex's mind. He remembered _every moment_ with distinction. Sometimes he wished he couldn't.

Once again: be careful what you wish for.

In this moment, he couldn't find the variance. If you asked Alex now, he couldn't have said a thing. He didn't know where he was, who he was working for, what his mission was. He couldn't tell you what world catastrophe he was derailing this time. He probably couldn't even tell you his own name.

But who could blame him? All things considered, Alex thought he was keeping it together _exceptionally_ well.

Bright red blood streamed down his arm in a torrent similar to a waterfall. He could feel his hand slipping in the viscous liquid. Dreading what he would see, Alex looked away from the carnage below to the carnage of his hand. The sight was jarring - such a shocking thing to see that it barely computed.

A shard of glass, at least two inches wide and several long, had slammed clean through his hand. Cleaved a hole through the tendons at the bottom of his hand, and coming precariously close to his pulse point; any further would have severed his radial artery, and Alex would have been done for.

Alex knew it should hurt. A knife sized, jagged piece of glass was sticking through his hand, _of course_ it should hurt. But somehow the pain wasn't registering. The sight of his mutilated limb didn't seem to make it to his brain. His nerves were shot, signals fizzling out before they made their full journey, refusing to tell his brain that there was a problem. Alex could clearly _see_ that there was a problem, but his grip on the edge didn't loosen. (It would hurt later, he was sure, when the shock wore off.)

Probably a good thing he couldn't feel it at the moment, considering he was dangling six stories up. If he looked to the concrete below, he could see exactly what would happen to him if he let go. It wasn't pretty.

"Cub!" The yell shocked him back to reality. He looked up. Miraculously, a hand had appeared - the hand of God, perhaps? At least, it offered Alex salvation.

Alex reached up with his free hand - all too aware that his other hand, slick with crimson, was sliding towards the edge. Seconds away from falling, he latched onto the outstretched hand. Vice grip nearly breaking his fingers. He was yanked upward, his joints hyperextending uncomfortably, then another hand clamped around his wrist.

A considerable heave found him flying over the edge. Alex stumbled and fell on the glass-covered floor. Luckily, the shards didn't slice through his thick army pants - but there was still the matter of the fragment already piercing his skin (and muscle and tendons and bones and nerves and veins.)

This matter, however, was taken out of his hands. Not literally - he had lost a lot of blood, and removing the glass piece would only exacerbate the issue - but in the sense that someone else had decided to take care of the problem.

A hand - the same hand that had saved his life seconds earlier - found a place applying pressure around the wound. A call for a medic was made, and a familiar looking soldier was soon knelt at his side.

In fact, most of the faces surrounding him were rather familiar. Cub, he had been called.

Snake took his injured arm from Fox, aka Ben Daniels, and did his best to staunch the blood flow. It was a nasty wound, and the expression on Snake's face wasn't giving him cause for celebration.

"Shit, Cub." Alex looked up to see who had spoken. Wolf, of course. He probably could have guessed from the callous profanity. (Doesn't he know that there are young ears present?)

"What happened?" It was Eagle now, staring at his mangled arm in abject horror.

Alex frowned, looking over the edge of the broken floor-to-ceiling window. A woman's fractured silhouette was displayed below, spread with limbs at awkward angles. She had been an assassin or a spy (a traitor), someone willing to kill to get the job done, anyway. Would have had one more name to cross off her hit list if Alex hadn't tackled her out the window.

Alex tried to remember, the details were out of his grasp, but some things came back, distantly, as if through a thick fog.

Alex was a spy, he was sent out to infiltrate all kinds of places. Governments. Agency's. But it hadn't really occurred to him that he could be on the receiving end of things; that one of his coworkers could be there to forward information to another government. Another agency. Alex never thought he'd be so unlucky.

The woman had been kind - the closest thing to a friend that he had on this mission, when K unit were away. They were away a lot, so he spent most of his time working with her; she'd been there as tech, not a spy, and Alex had found her a refreshing presence. Innocent in a way he wasn't anymore. They'd even shared a room together, him being the only child (he argued that he _wasn't_ a child anymore) and her being the only woman, it made sense. They had limited space to begin with, they couldn't afford to be giving people single rooms.

He remembered waking from nightmares, trying not to disturb her as well. Biting down on his fist to keep from calling out (for Yassen, that was usually the name on the tip of his tongue.) She had seemed to sleep on peacefully, but now Alex wondered if it was an act.

He wondered who she had told about him. He didn't know who she had worked for (too late to find out now.)

It had been just another day on the mission - except it wasn't. This day, they had _finally_ managed to get what they came for.

Alex had come back to the hotel, picture proof of some documents on his phone as well as a flash drive hidden in his pocket. The hotel suite that was acting as their base of operations had been mostly empty; just her and another tech worker. Alex had handed the flash drive to him, because he was sitting at the console.

He felt the rush of adrenaline leaving his body as his mission came to a close. Felt his walls come down, the mission stress falling away. Calmer than he had been in days. He should have known better than to get comfortable. He wasn't out of deep waters yet.

The male tech had sent a message to the other agents and K unit: come home, we did it. He had uploaded the flash drive to the main computer, had told Alex to forward the pictures from his phone to MI6 immediately.

Alex had moved, unconsciously putting the other two people in the room between him and the towering windows. A habit. (He had plenty of experience that told him that standing next to windows was a big no no.)

He had been focusing on his phone when a gunshot rang out. Looking up, it had taken his brain a second to register what had happened. She had shot the tech in the head, stopping him from sending the information to '6. Then, she had turned the gun on Alex.

He had drawn his own gun - that he technically wasn't allowed, but if Eagle insisted on leaving his spare somewhere as unprotected as a padlocked bedside drawer, Alex couldn't be blamed for taking advantage - but she had gotten the jump on him. Was already moving before he'd flicked the safety off.

She had disarmed him.

At that, he laughed - she hadn't quite dis _arm_ ed him, actually. He looked at his injured hand that was still being cradled by Snake - it was still very much attached, thankfully. Not _disarmed._ Not quite.

He was aware that K unit were looking at him with concern (laughing probably wasn't a good sign, in their books.) Then black spots flooded his vision. Alex was distinctly reminded of the weather in London not a week before. His eyesight flooded with the same static filled vision. He didn't remember anything else.

* * *

Alex woke up to a pounding heart and a stabbing pain. Pain that started in his arm, but seemed to radiate throughout his entire body. Every bump and jolt sent a new wave of discomfort over him.

He cracked his eyes slightly. Saw that he was in a small, box like room. Lying on his back, surrounded by shelves that held what looked like medical supplies. He could smell the alcohol, a familiar scent in all the chaos. An ambulance, then.

They went over another bump, Alex's head tilted to the side. He squeezed his eyes shut again, waiting for the ache to pass. When he opened them again, his eyesight was hazy.

Another bump, and suddenly his hearing came back. In one surge, he was aware of every sound in the ambulance. The breathing, the heartbeats, the _shouting_. His heartbeat rose. Little strips of conversation and medical jargon flooded his ears all at once.

 _BP rising! Systolic is…_

… _at risk of clotting._

 _Administering half a dose of heparin..._

 _He can't lose much more blood…_

 _I think we'll have to cut it off._

That's what Alex latched onto. _Cut it off_. No way. They couldn't…

Alex tried to focus through his fuzzy vision - thought he saw someone he recognized, sitting next to him. Snake, maybe. That would make sense.

"Don't let them cut it off…" It was little more than a whisper, but every person in the vehicle was hyper aware of him. They heard.

"Shit! He's awake. Someone sedate him!"

"Don't let them…" Alex trailed off, a needle jabbing into his uninjured arm. Everything faded away.

* * *

 **AN:**

Please leave your thoughts in the reviews.


	2. Need a Hand?

When Alex woke up again, things were a lot clearer. Clear and pristine and _white_. A hospital. But which one? They all looked the same. Like a cheap video game, where rooms were simply copied and pasted. Filled with different characters, a few unfamiliar decorations and they could pretend it was a new place entirely.

He was in a private room. Lying on a bed that was in the center of the room, for accessibilities sake. Wires and tubes were pressed to and into his skin, but less than he had expected. Less than he'd had before.

Something was pressed in the palm of his left hand; Alex ran his thumb over it, pushing down and making his bed move. He removed his thumb, startled, then pushed down again. He was slowly raised to a sitting position.

Alex took stock of the situation, and was actually quite pleased. He didn't feel too bad, all things considered - in fact, he felt a little floaty. Blissed out. There was a dull throbbing from his right hand - but it was still _there_. They hadn't amputated, thank his lucky stars. It must not have been as bad as they thought.

The door opened, and Wolf appeared. He was holding a tray of coffees - four of them, to be exact, so Alex assumed the rest of K unit were nearby. Wolf looked up, noticed he was awake, and turned to holler down the hall.

The soldier moved out of the way, putting the coffees down as a woman in a white lab coat rushed in. Her identification badge, which was pinned slightly askew to her breast pocket, labeled her a doctor.

She gave him a thorough check over, gentle hands fiddling with all the wires and tubes. Touching his bandaged arm, taking his pulse and feeling his face. A light was shone into his eyes. Then she sat on the edge of his bed, which Alex thought was a bit unprofessional, but he reminded himself that he was young and doctors liked to coddle him.

She was talking to him, and he tried to tune in. Tried to listen.

"I'm sorry," She said. "We did everything we could."

Alex cocked his head to the side, not understanding. 'We did everything we could' was something doctors said when the patient died. He didn't die, he didn't think so anyway. He felt very much alive. Slightly in pain pain and alive. Not only alive, but with with all ten fingers and all ten toes attached. What were they apologizing for?

When he looked up to ask, she was gone. Disappeared like a magician. Poof - gone. Wolf was in her place, and the rest of K unit had appeared at some point. They hovered over him, worried. But he was fine, wasn't he?

* * *

K unit stayed for a while, chatting about idle things between themselves, as if trying to distract him. He and K unit were never _close_ , not really. They didn't clash with each other like they once did, but they also weren't best mates. So the fact that they were all at his bedside spoke volumes.

Alex slowly became more lucid, still trying to figure out the depth of the situation. He hadn't found the energy to ask what was wrong with him, had been afraid of the answer. Then they had left. Visiting hours were over, he was told. They would be back tomorrow. Try to get some sleep.

He did get some sleep - he was sure that he was on some strong drugs, which probably helped. He wasn't complaining.

When he woke up, someone was in his room. He thought it must be a doctor or a nurse, or maybe even K unit - how long had it been? But then, whoever was in his room clearly wasn't supposed to be. They were too quiet. Too intent on not being caught. Alex leaned over, turning on the bedside lamp and grabbing a pen that had been left atop his chart, in case he needed to defend himself.

"Alex…" the voice was soft. Familiar.

"Yassen," Alex smiled and put the pen down, trying to sit up. Yassen's hand appeared in his chest, urging him to lie down. Stay still.

The assassin took a seat in the chair that Wolf had occupied, right near his head on his right side. He leaned over the bars of the hospital bed and kissed his forehead. Alex tried to reach out to him, but found it difficult to move. Must be the drugs.

Yassen, perceptive as ever, noticed his movement and helped him out. He reached out, taking Alex's bandaged hand between gentle fingers. Brought the back of his hand up to his lips and kissed it.

Alex started to cry. Silently, tears falling down his face.

"Alex? What's wrong?" Yassen's voice was full of concern, but Alex couldn't focus on his voice. Instead, he was focused on his hands. The hands encasing his own. Hands that usually emitted heat were now cold. Skin that was calloused and full of ridges and patterns for Alex to trace was now flat and smooth. Nonexistent. Fingers rubbed the bits of Alex's skin that the bandage didn't cover. He didn't feel it.

He didn't feel anything.

He tried to move his fingers, tried to close his hand around Yassen's like he had done a hundred times before. His hand stayed still, like a piece of a statue. Like it was made of stone instead of flesh and blood.

Alex's breathing picked up, an erratic beeping filled his ears, his tears falling faster. He was aware that Yassen had let go of his hand, placing it on the bed. The assassin leaned past him, hitting the button that was meant for emergencies.

Then he was gone, replaced by doctors. Something was pumped through his IV, and he felt his world slipping through the cracks of his consciousness. He lay back, head tilted to the side.

A breeze was rippling the curtains of his now open window. Something bright was pouring through it - sunlight? Moonlight? A lonely lantern? He wasn't sure.

He wished Yassen would come back.

* * *

In the morning, K unit returned, as promised. Alex had calmed down, thanks be to those drugs. They explained to him, as sensitively as four war-hardened veterans could manage, what had happened. That upon his request, the doctors had done their best to save his hand, though it would have been quicker and cleaner to cut it off. Taken him into a long and drawn out surgery that was a lot riskier than amputation would have been. That the damage was extensive, but they had done well. Amazingly. Alex had been given the best care MI6 could find (Alex was surprised that '6 had spared the effort.)

They had saved the hand. Salvaged most of the tendons and nerves. But nerves were a fickle thing, the doctors weren't sure what kind of mobility Alex would regain. Anywhere from nothing, to around seventy five percent was there best guess. Never perfect. Never the way Alex was. He would never regain full use of his hand. (Plus there would be the pain - but the doctors would explain that later.)

It would take time, and Alex would need to stay under close observation for the foreseeable future so the doctors could get a clear picture. They were optimistic, apparently. Alex was young and healthy, and had a history of bouncing back from injury. Alex wasn't sure if they said that just to make him feel better, or if they really believed in his chances for recovery. He hoped the latter - he didn't know what he would do if he didn't regain control of his hand.

His right hand. His dominant hand. His shooting hand and his fighting hand. An injury like this would keep Alex out of the field, maybe forever. That hurt more than Alex thought it would.

He'd been working for MI6 for a long time now. Had lived through the reign of Blunt, and now Jones. He had gone from being blackmailed, to something like free will; had been working for '6 for a while, more or less because he wanted to. Knowing that he would probably never go on another mission again… was oddly heartbreaking. Like he had just lost another part of himself.

But he put on a brave face - told K unit that a desk job might be just what he needed. That yes, an extended vacation, medical leave, would be nice. Tried not to show how much the thought repulsed him, they didn't need to know that.

K unit didn't really understand - to them, he would always be the little kid, thrown into the deep end. Someone who hadn't had a choice and didn't stand a chance. Someone who could easily be killed. But Alex had evolved passed that. He wasn't the young teenager in over his head anymore. They didn't understand that. They didn't want to.

K unit had always wanted Alex to be _safe_. Out of harm's way. Had always thought Alex was too young to be in the field. They had worked well together, when the situation called for it, but Alex could tell that they felt more than a little awkward working with him. They'd probably be glad to see the back of him, in all honesty.

Alex could tell that they felt guilty, because they were happy that Alex wouldn't be risking his life anymore. Almost like they were happy he had gotten so badly hurt that MI6 couldn't use him anymore. Alex tried to ease their guilt by pretending he was okay with it. That he wanted it too. He didn't.

K unit didn't understand. They were his friends - or the closest things to friends he had - but they didn't get it. They probably never would.

And when they left, Alex tried to stop the tears from rolling down his face. As much as he had claimed to hate MI6 and everything that came with them, those missions were addictive. Part of him loved it. He wasn't sure how to live without it, not anymore.

It wasn't just the missions, either. It was everything, his hobbies. All the things he'd grown up loving. Ian may have been training him up to be a spy, but Alex had genuinely enjoyed the activities.

Water skiing, parasailing, rock climbing, jet skiing, windsurfing, archery. Even shooting a gun. All the things he may never get to do again. Even simple things like cooking and cleaning and reading and _writing_ would pose a challenge. Alex was slightly ambidextrous - at least, writing with his left hand produced something neater than chicken scratch - but he didn't like the idea of relearning everything he knew.

It sucked. But he was alive; that's what counted, right? That's what the head shrink had said, when he had stopped by.

Alex tried to look on the bright side. When he had calmed down again, he took out his cellphone. Not the phone MI6 had given him, but the one Yassen had got him. He called Yassen.

" _Alex? Are you okay?_ "

Alex breathed a sigh of relief, "I'm okay. I want to go home." He didn't really want to go _home_ , per se. Not to Chelsea. More accurately, he just wanted out of this place, and he wanted to be with Yassen. Home is where the heart is, after all.

There was a pause. Yassen was probably thinking that Alex should stay put, in hospital, to get better. The doctors wanted him to stay for observation, then they could get a more accurate picture of how much his hand would recover. But Alex didn't think that staying in the hospital was good for his moral. He wanted to go _home_. And Yassen also knew that if he didn't come get him, Alex would leave on his own. " _I'll be there soon_."

And he was. Alex had left the window open, and Yassen appeared. One second an empty room, next second an assassin was kneeling next to him.

Yassen ran his fingers over his inner arm, caressing the bandages, not that Alex could feel it. He kissed Alex, then helped him wordlessly out of bed. Gave him clothes that weren't a white hospital gown.

"I'm going to go down, bring the car around. I'll meet you at the front door."

Yassen disappeared out the window. For a moment, Alex was confused as to why he shouldn't just follow. He'd be less likely to be seen if he went out Yassen's way. Then he remembered. He wouldn't be scaling any buildings any time soon.

Before he left, he brought out his _other_ phone. The MI6 one. He shot off a quick text to Ben Daniels.

 _Don't worry about me :D_

He figured he owed K unit at least that - peace of mind that he hadn't been snatched from his hospital bed. He would have written more, but he didn't have the time or inclination (he didn't realize that typing with just his left hand would be so irritating.) Also… he didn't owe them _that_ much.

He and K unit were friends. Well, more accurately, they were _friendly_. They didn't get to spend enough time together to be anything more than workplace chums. Alex suspected Mrs. Jones kept them away, much of the time. It didn't do to have people form any attachments to Alex - they usually ended up being a nuisance. Or collateral.

So really, while K unit were some of the only friends he could speak of, they didn't warrant more than a four word text. Harsh - but the reality of being a spy. Alex wasn't here to make friends.

Alex left his room, trying to look like he belonged. Walking with purpose, no one challenged him. As long as he didn't see any of _his_ doctors, he should get off scot free.

Then he did see one of his doctors - but she didn't see him. She was in a staff room, door half open, brow furrowed, flipping through what seemed to be the Complete Works of William Shakespeare. At least, it was thick enough to be. Taking a step closer, Alex recognized his own medical file.

Impulsively, Alex walked a few rooms back. Went in and hit the panic button by the empty bed. He hid next to the door as the doctor came rushing in, slipped out behind her and closed the door before she registered the ruse. He quickly pushed a crash cart in front of the door, finding it surprisingly difficult with only one hand, but it would give him a few seconds.

Then he rushed into the now empty staff room, picked up his file, and ran to the stairs. Down a couple flights, out the front door, no one stopped him. Then he was sitting shotgun in Yassens car, ready to get the hell out of there.

His phone pinged: _Don't do anything stupid_

Alex didn't warrant more than four words either. K unit wouldn't be too worried, he didn't think. They had other things to deal with (war zones being among those things.) It wasn't like Alex was really their problem anyway.

Yassen drove - one hand on the wheel, one hand on Alex's knee. Alex ran his good hand over Yassen's, relishing in the touch that he could _feel_. He looked at Yassen, admiring, as he kept his eyes on the road. Then he looked around.

He realized that he didn't recognize where he was - it wasn't London. It wasn't France. It was a city, must have been a big city. Alex guessed he had been flown to a top medical hospital, wherever that was. How Yassen had found him was a mystery.

Now he wasn't sure where Yassen would take them. He hoped it was somewhere warm.

* * *

Alex woke up screaming in pain. It felt like acid was being pumped through his veins via his arm. Tears were streaking his face - he was sobbing, it hurt so badly.

He guessed the drugs must have worn off. Damn.

Yassen was there, holding his hands. One he could feel, the other he couldn't. He was telling Alex to breath. Just breath. He was crawling into the bed, pulling Alex close and hugging him tightly. He shook in Yassen's arms, his entire body shuddering.

"I've got you. Just breathe. I've got you." Yassen mumbled sweet nothings. Reminding him to breath like it was a mantra. The words were soothing, soft. They eased him. The pain subsided.

Alex shifted, curling up and leaning back against the headboard, breathing heavily. Yassen rubbed his hands over Alex's legs.

Alex tried not to cry; his chest was heaving with the effort. Yassen's hands were on his body, the familiar touch comforting. He pulled Alex in, rocking back and forth like Alex was a child woken from a bad dream. He managed to calm down, the pain in his hand fading to the back of his mind.

He leaned back, looking up at Yassen with wide eyes.

"I read through your file," Yassen said offhandedly, trying to distract him from the pain. The medical file he'd stolen. Alex nodded, that was fine, he didn't mind. This was Yassen, he would have let him read it anyway.

Alex expected Yassen to say more, but he just pulled him in for another hug. "Everything is going to be okay."

Alex doubted that, but it was a comforting thing to hear anyway.

* * *

 **AN:**

I'm no doctor, so I'm sorry if this and anything I write in the future isn't very accurate. But this is Alex Rider's universe, not ours, so anything that isn't quite correct can be explained away by this being fiction.

Please review! I love to hear from you!


	3. Bad Days, Better Nights

Everything was not okay.

After he'd woken up, he had been in pain. That was putting it mildly. It had faded a bit, but it was still there. Like he was hyper aware of the injury - never able to push the pain to the back of his mind. Yassen had comforted him, had reassured him. Figuratively and literally holding his hand.

It had taken two miserable days before he could drag himself from bed. Yassen had played nurse for those forty-eight hours, which Alex found both amusing and a little disheartening. He'd gone downstairs with Yassen, leaning heavily on the older man (annoyed with his own infidelity.)

You would think that being down one arm, while sucking, wouldn't trouble him too much when it came to walking. You would be wrong. His file had said he would feel a lot of pain - from the intense nerve damage that kept firing off pain signals that shouldn't exist. It was debilitating. Sometimes Alex could barely see through the haze of pain - couldn't move without shocks resounding through his body.

The first couple of days had been agony. Alex knew the pain was coming from his arm, but it felt like it was everywhere. Even now, it was constantly aggravating him.

One second it wouldn't be so bad. If he was sufficiently distracted, Alex could walk around just fine. A second later, he would be doubled over in pain.

He saw the way Yassen followed him with his eyes. The man always seemed to be in the same room as him, and was next to him in seconds if he fell. Alex was grateful - but annoyed with himself for being so helpless.

Yassen said it would get better - and indeed, Alex saw small improvements. The pain lessened slightly, or maybe he just got used to it. The length of time between the attacks his nerves underwent seemed to grow. He still couldn't feel anything, couldn't move from the elbow down, but there was improvement.

On good days, when the pain was mild and he could sit and talk with Yassen, read a book, wander around the house, Alex felt hope. A dangerous thing, hope, because it made the bad days so much worse.

When he woke up in screaming pain, and even the medication did little to ease it, Alex found himself in a black mood. Harbouring dark thoughts and brooding.

He had read his file, the one he had stolen. The doctors had told him he could regain anything from nil to three fourths of his past functionality. His nerves had been damaged, but luckily not severed. There was hope. Reading the file himself, Alex saw that that was the optimistic view. He would be lucky if he didn't still need to have his arm amputated, in the end. Would be lucky if the nerve damage just stayed as is, instead of growing, spreading.

There was a chart, showing his damaged nerves in red and his healthy nerves in blue. Mostly red.

It also said (using a lot of medical jargon that went over Alex's head) that the sensory nerves had been damaged in such a way as to cause pain at the slightest movement. At least, that's what one doctor thought.

His other doctor, one of the surgeons, put in a note that said that a lot of the pain was probably psychological; stemming from the traumatic way he got the injury, and the implications of it. He said that it was unlikely his nerves were sending the pain signals at all, and that his brain was creating them to compensate for the loss. Similar to a phantom limb, although Alex's limb was still attached. Apparently, Alex felt physical pain from the injury because of the mental pain it caused him, or some psycho-babble like that. Alex didn't know what to think about that. He didn't know which theory he preferred.

On one hand, if at least some of it was in his head, that meant he could get rid of it, right? Alex was strong minded (thick headed, Jack would say) surely he was stronger than whatever trick was being played on his mind. On the other hand, the pain felt real. It was possibly the most real pain he'd ever felt. How did he reconcile that with the fact that he could be imagining it?

So on the days where the pain was almost too much to bare, Alex stayed in bed. Oblivious to anything Yassen said or did. Refusing to eat, only drinking what Yassen could force down his throat. Consuming too many pain meds when Yassen wasn't looking - wishing for something stronger.

Sometimes Yassen would ask if he wanted to get out of bed - if he wanted to stretch his legs. Most often, Alex ignored the question. Finding himself in too much pain to even form a reply. Other times, if he was feeling particularly crabby, he would snap a sharp no at Yassen. He would immediately feel bad afterwards - Yassen was only trying to help - but he rarely apologized.

Yassen never commented on his abrasive attitude, which only made Alex feel worse.

Alex would lie on his side, gazing blankly out the glass balcony doors. Glazed eyes fixated on the dancing shadows created by the bright sun and the trees outside. Yassen would open the curtains wide for him, maybe hoping the sunny view would energize him.

On these days, it was easy for Alex to wish he had let go, on top of that building; that he had just let go. It would have been quick - not painless, of course, but he doubted it could hurt as much as this.

Yassen must know it, too - the place where his mind went on bad days. He was so encouraging on these days; kind and gentle and helpful, no matter how snappish Alex was in return. The polar opposite of his assassin persona. Alex loved him for it - and he wondered how long it could last.

Alex would be lying if he said he was secure enough in their relationship, secure enough with himself, to know where they went from here. They loved each other, he knew that - but that had been before the accident. Now? He was different. What if he was too different for Yassen to recognize? For Yassen to love?

The man had stuck with him thus far - but what if he didn't get better? A huge part of who he was relied upon being independent. A reason that their relationship worked was because being apart for weeks or months didn't affect them. These last few weeks… he'd been nothing but dependant. By now, he had probably spent more time alone with Yassen than he ever had.

Not to mention he had been utterly horrible to Yassen ninety percent of the time. He just couldn't seem to find the energy to be kind.

How long was Yassen willing to be tethered to someone who couldn't take care of himself? Sure, Alex would learn. He knew, lots of people lost their limbs and turned out fine - could take care of themselves. But that wasn't all. Alex didn't just want to live; didn't just want to take care of himself. The things he wanted to do, a lot of the things he'd done with Yassen, didn't seem to be much of an option any more.

And even if Yassen did want to stay with him, would situation allow it? He was an assassin - a job that meant moving frequently, and with little warning, to places all over the globe. Would he be able to travel with Yassen? Could he manage the long flights, the constant running, the days of isolation?

Could he manage being there with him while he was off on a hit? Waiting for him to come back after ending someone's life? He'd never really had to face what Yassen did, not like that. What if it was too much for him? Would he end up driving away the last person that he had in his corner?

What was the alternative? He stay in a safe house somewhere, waiting for Yassen to finish work? Or he go back to Chelsea? Alex didn't want to be left at home and visited like a mistress.

Even Chelsea was only a temporary solution. Live in a house owned by MI6 until… what? He wasn't a spy anymore. He had plenty of money, but not enough for a lifetime. What would he do when he ran out? MI6 wouldn't support him forever…

Not to mention he wasn't even sure if MI6 would take care of him at all. They had footed his hospital bill, but that was when there was a chance he could get better. Now it was clear that he wouldn't… and he hadn't left with MI6's permission… there was a good chance they would write him off for this.

Maybe he would end up moving in with the Pleasures after all - and after he had told them no, too. He'd done his best to push them away - them and Tom and any friends he might have had - because he thought it would keep them out of danger. The only people he had allowed to remain were people that could take care of themselves. People he didn't have to worry about getting in trouble. Yassen, for one. K unit for another - but even they were kept at arm's length. He had never even told them his real name, apart from Ben, and they had done the same. He thought it was safer that way. He hadn't realized that he was isolating himself to the point that he nearly had nowhere to go and no one to help him.

* * *

Today was a bad day, Alex could already tell.

It had started off well enough. At least, he had made it through breakfast without throwing up in pain. He had managed to go downstairs that morning, lying on the couch.

Alex was watching television - not the mindless drama he used to fill his head with, Yassen had put him off those. He was tuned into some boring French news channel, hoping it would put him to sleep. It had almost worked - he was just on the edge of unconsciousness, slumped against the throw pillows, when his arm flared in pain.

He shot bolt right up, clutching his limp arm to his chest. He'd been so shocked, he couldn't even yell - luckily Yassen was a step ahead. Already at his side, the man was holding a bottle of painkillers. Gentle hands took his injured arm, massaging the angry muscle through the bandages. Alex didn't feel any of Yassen's ministrations, but the pain faded a bit.

Not much, though. Even after a healthy dose of painkillers, Alex was in a stupor of agony all day. Couldn't move - could barely breath - without feeling physically assaulted. Like someone had taken a tire iron to every bone and muscle in his body. It sucked.

He'd been carried back to bed, tucked in like a child, and kissed on the forehead. He didn't know how long he laid there until the pain became manageable. When he was able to move, he saw the pillow beneath him was dark with tears.

Yassen, he saw, had fallen asleep in an armchair that had been pulled to the side of the bed. Obviously he had been coming and going from the room, sitting with Alex when he got the chance.

Trying not to wake him - because he knew Yassen both needed and deserved the rest - he reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. The smooth cylinder slid right through his listless fingers. Alex winced. Fuck - wrong hand.

The glass fell, hitting on an angle. Water spouted out like a school drinking fountain, a perfect arc. It shattered on the wooden floors, with a crack loud enough to wake the dead. Certainly loud enough to wake Yassen.

The assassin had snapped into awareness so fast Alex was sure he would have whiplash. Blue eyes took in the situation in a microsecond, then turned to Alex in sympathy.

Alex himself had flinched back in shock, and was now leaning against the headboard. He held his wounded arm over his heart - not entirely sure if the rhythmic thumping was his heart contracting or his arm throbbing.

"Fuck." He could feel frustrated tears well up, and dashed them away with his good hand.

"It's okay," Yassen said in a tone of voice that left it open ended as to what, exactly, was okay. The glass? The hand? The man couldn't be more ambiguous if he tried.

Alex shook his head. Not disagreeing with Yassen, per se, but certainly not agreeing. How could anything be okay? Everything was very much not okay.

"I'll get you a new glass," Yassen told him, brushing the back of a soft hand against Alex's cheek. He leant into the touch, needing comfort.

Then Yassen was gone - off to fetch water and a broom and a dustpan and a cloth.

Meanwhile, Alex glared at his useless appendage.

He hadn't expected overnight improvement, but he was still disappointed with his lack of progress. Grabbing the edge of the bandage, he unwound it with his left hand's sure fingers. The white wrap was bundled up and tossed to the bottom of his bed.

The skin of his arm was pale and a little sticky from the bandage residue. He touched it gently - could feel the coolness through his left hand, but not the heat being transferred to his right.

The pads of his fingers drifted down to the ugly, puckered and scabbed soon to be scar. Two and a half inches of jagged, broken skin, spanning his wrist and the bottom part of his hand, on both sides. The stitching was ugly and stark against his pale skin, and Alex could feel the metal bolts holding him together under the skin. He pressed two fingers to the part of his cut on his palm. Felt nothing.

Frustration threatened to overflow again. He was annoyed with his invalidity. Mad at the dead weight attached to his body.

Everything was not alright.

Pressing harder, Alex hoped to feel something - anything. Anything besides the nervous pain that was like a million little electrical shocks, numbing his system. He squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed and pressed and pressed and pressed.

And there. Something… that was something.

Pain, but a different kind to what he had gotten used to. Not the constant and consistent nervous irritation. This was… something like getting a deep tissue massage. The pain of pressure deep in his sinews.

Alex could have cheered. Done a fucking back flip. He looked up, about to shout for Yassen. He'd felt something.

Yassen was already there, in the doorway. A broom and a plastic pan in one hand, a tall glass in the other, a cloth thrown over his shoulder. He was looking at Alex, scared and worried, his mouth agape the slightest bit.

"What did you do?"

Alex looked down - noticing for the first time the blood running down his forearm, staining the duvet. The ragged hole he'd punctured into his healing cut at the wrist. His hand was shaking of its own accord.

There was a clatter as Yassen dropped the broom and tray to the ground. A clink as the glass was set aside. The cloth that had been meant to clean the spilled water was tightly tied around his wrist. Then strong, long, pianist-like fingers closed around the newly opened wound. The pressure halted his inexorable tremor and the persistent bleeding. Yassen's free hand - because he had two good ones - wrapped around the back of Alex's head, pulling it to a strong chest.

Alex was crying, though he didn't remember that starting. Yassen was shushing him, humming calming nonsense.

Alex didn't know how much more of this he could take.

* * *

When he had calmed down, Yassen released him. Threw in a couple stitches to replace the ones Alex ripped. Re-wrapping his arm without comment or reprimand. Alex appreciated that. He felt bad enough as it was.

Yassen helped him sit up a bit better. Concern took over his face as Alex doubled up, biting his lip.

"Do you need anything?" Yassen was prepared to grant his wishes like a genie.

"I could use a drink," Alex suggested, wincing in pain as he tried to straighten up.

Yassen frowned in disapproval. "Of water, I hope," was the pointed reply. He reached for the abandoned glass on the nightstand.

Alex grumbled. "Yeah, water. Right."

* * *

 **AN:**

Reviews are always welcome!


	4. Drinking Games

**Warnings:** alcohol addiction and mentions of slash intercourse.

* * *

Yassen had stayed with Alex, right by his side, for over a month straight; had taken him to a safehouse somewhere warm and sunny upon Alex's request. Not that Alex was able to enjoy it, bedridden most of the time- he never seemed to get to _enjoy_ good weather.

Anyway, eventually, Yassen had to leave. They'd been uninterrupted for over four weeks, but even the fully stocked safe house had its limits. He needed to go get supplies and handle whatever else assassins needed to handle in order to stay off the grid (Alex tried not to think about that.)

Now Alex was lying in bed, muscles spasming in pain. Yassen had also gone out to fetch more pain meds - he was in desperate need.

Moaning, he turned over, nearly falling out of the covers. Alex bit his lip, muffling a pained groan. He latched his eyes to the door, waiting for Yassen to appear. He felt like an obedient dog, waiting patiently for his master to return. Then he felt irritated with himself.

Annoyed, Alex forced himself to roll out of bed. He dragged the top blanket with him, wrapping it around his shoulders like a cape. He stumbled out of the room, and was met with a problem. The stairs.

The pain threw him off, made him dizzy sometimes, and the railing was on his right side. Usually, Yassen was there to help him down. But, Alex reminded himself, he was not an invalid. He could walk down a set of stairs.

He stumbled down awkwardly, making it to the bottom without incident. Hungry, he moved to the kitchen. The fridge was mostly empty, the cupboards bare. There was a lazy-susan that Alex was looking through. Mostly baking supplies - he couldn't quite see Yassen baking, though he wasn't surprised that the assassins skills extended that far - but at the back was something else. All thoughts of food dispersed.

Bingo - vodka. You can always bet that a Russian will have a bottle or two laying around. Alex had found, over the years and the experience of many spy-related injuries, that it worked just as well as painkillers. Not that Yassen would approve, which is probably why it was hidden behind the flour and the brown sugar.

Sitting at the kitchen island, Alex poured himself a shot, downing it in one go. He'd done this before - Alex was never very good at being on leave, especially when injured, and he had developed… something of a drinking problem. Not that he would admit it was a _problem_. Naturally, he could stop whenever he wanted. Or isn't that what the addict's say?

Yassen thought it was Alex going through his 'teenage rebellion phase'. That instead of drinking and partying to defy parents or guardians, like a normal teen, he'd done it to lash out against MI6. Probably a sound deduction. Alex thought that Yassen should quit trying to psychoanalyse him.

Anyway, it hadn't concerned MI6 that much - after all, he didn't drink on missions. They hadn't approved, but they also hadn't tried to stop him.

They had begun to realize that Alex Rider would do whatever the hell he wanted. Drink, party, fuck an international assassin (not that they were aware of the last one.) But as long as 'missions' stayed on the list of things Alex would do, they could ignore the others.

Alex drew a line in the condensation on the bottle of vodka. Abandoning his shot glass, he drank straight from the bottle. He cringed at the taste, spilling a bit down his chin, then relaxed as a pleasant buzz overcame him. The pain that radiated through his nerves from his hand slowly subsided, replaced by the pleasant feeling of intoxication.

He drank until things started turning slightly foggy. A familiar sensation of static filled his brain. Similarly, static encroached upon his vision - clouding his peripheral.

He aimed for the golden moment - when the world is bright and nice and you feel like your floating. The pleasant buzz. He maybe overshot a little.

Once Alex was feeling sufficiently pain free (a little like he was going to puke, but that's besides the point), he slipped off his stool and away from the island. He moved to put the glass bottle away - picking it up with his injured hand. The bottle slipped from his lax fingers, bouncing off the edge of the island and shattering on the tile floor. Fuck, Alex thought, every _damn_ time.

He really should stay away from glass, or at least learn to pick things up with his left hand.

Oh well, Alex thought, at least it had been empty.

He dropped to his knees, with far less grace than usual, and tried to sweep the shards towards him. The blanket around him billowed out. He kept his one, useless hand at his side, utilizing just his left. Every time he picked up a piece of glass, it slipped from his fingers like water.

The glass surrounded him, reminding Alex painfully of the thick shards from that broken window. The sharp piece that had pierced his skin. Alex dropped the pieces he had managed to pick up, suddenly not wanting to be near the cutting edges.

Shit. He sat back on his haunches, frowning. Maybe he had drunk a little too much… he would be regretting that in the morning. And Yassen wouldn't be happy when he came home to a busted vodka bottle.

Alex sighed, already regretting his decision to drink. He didn't like upsetting Yassen. Unavoidable, now.

He pushed himself to unsteady feet, being sure to steer clear of the glass surrounding him. He stepped carefully, tiptoeing with his duvet hitched up around him. Navigating the razor sharp minefield to safety.

He made it to the base of the stairs - grateful that the banister was now on his left. He gripped the railing firmly, the lacquered wood smooth under his hand. Assessing the staircase, he leaned heavily on his left hand. He was beginning to regret the vodka, as he often did - his pain was gone, but now he had a whole other set of impairments to worry about.

About two thirds of the way up, Alex's bare foot caught on the edge of the blanket that was still wrapped around his shoulders; he stumbled, flinging his hands out to catch himself. His right hand collided with the wall, and he screamed in pain as his nerves lanced through his body.

His arm collapsed under the strain, and Alex's whole world tipped sideways. His forehead smacked the drywall before he went tumbling down the stairs, unable to control the sudden descent. Everything flipped upside down, then right side up, then repeat, until he collapsed in a bruised and battered heap at the bottom of the stairs.

Alex moaned in pain, curling in on himself. Lying on his side in fetal position, he looked up the stairs that had instigated his assault. He was a little hurt by their unprecedented violence.

His hand was throbbing like never before - a hot, stinging pain. Agonizing, like someone was pressing a cattle prod to his wrist. He wondered if he had broken it - that would just be the cherry on top, now wouldn't it? Alex bit his lip, shivering in pain. Tears formed and fell down his face.

He could really use another drink, right about now.

* * *

/Yassen/

Yassen floored it into his driveway, slamming on the breaks and shutting the car down within seconds. Snatching his bags from the passenger seat, he raced to the front door, barely pausing to lock the car.

He had messed up. In his reluctance to leave Alex to his own devices, he had made the mistake of letting supplies run low. Food was one thing, but when the pain in Alex's arm became unbearable and there wasn't any medication in sight, Yassen knew he had fucked up.

He had sent Alex to bed, hoping against hope that sleep would occupy him long enough for Yassen to get what they needed. But he knew he would have to be quick; Alex didn't sleep well on the best of days, and lately he would wake up a dozen times a night from pain.

So Yassen had driven to and from the nearest store with his foot firmly on the gas pedal.

Now he approached the house, bearing groceries and drugs. He knew that, eventually, he would have to ween Alex off medication. Knew it was dangerous to let the boy rely on them so much. They were addictive drugs, and Alex already had a problem with alcohol. He didn't need to become a junkie on top of that.

Yassen opened the door, and immediately realized that he hadn't been fast enough. Did Alex have a death wish? Why did he have to be _so_ self destructive?

Alex was lying in a heap at the base of the stairs, duvet from the bed tangled around him, still in his pyjamas. White shirt, grey jogging bottoms, bare feet and a halo of gold hair spread across the hardwood.

Yassen released his bags of purchases, listening to them clatter and thud to the ground (realized belatedly that he had eggs in there.) Hurrying to Alex's side, he dropped down to examine him.

Breathing, thankfully. His eyes were closed tight, face pinched in pain. He was shivering, despite the warm atmosphere and the blanket knotted around him.

And, he smelled of vodka. Yassen noted the distinct scent, as well as the shattered glass in the kitchen behind him. He really should have hidden his stash better. Not that it would help against a spy.

Couldn't be left alone for a second, apparently.

"Alexander," he whispered, trying not to startle the jumpy spy.

Alex shifted at the sound of his voice, tilting his face towards him. Brown eyes opened to slits, gazing fuzzily in his general direction.

"Sorry, Yassen," Alex slurred - clearly ridiculously drunk. Yassen felt annoyed for a moment, before the feeling morphed into sympathy.

"It's okay," he continued to speak lowly, "let's just get you to bed, yes?"

He leaned closer, examining Alex for injuries. Bruised and battered, but Alex had gotten off easy. It all looked mostly superficial.

The boy was cradling his injured arm, still wrapped up from fingers to elbow. Yassen found the end of the wrap, unraveling it gently. The skin underneath was pink and tender, the scar's on either side of his wrist scabbed and red and angry. Alex's arm was swollen, muscles jarred from the fall. Sprained, most likely.

That wasn't good, but it could have been worse. Alex didn't seem to have broken anything. No bleeding and no concussion.

Satisfied that he was stable, he slid his hands under Alex's prone body. Alex whimpered and whined, shifting away from him, but he held on tight. He carted Alex upstairs, taking care to walk slowly. It seemed as if every step caused Alex an insurmountable amount of pain.

At the top of the flight was the bedroom - door wide open. He walked in, and deposited Alex on the absurdly messy bed. He smoothed the duvet and sheets around him. Alex groaned.

"Did you get those pain meds?" Alex asked, voice strained.

Yassen nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair from Alex's forehead. "Yes, but you can't take them with alcohol. You'll have to wait until morning."

Alex moaned in despair. "It _hurts_."

"I know," he replied, running a soothing hand over Alex's injured arm. Starting at the base of the fingers, he ran his hand upwards over bare skin. He could see the moment when his touch could be felt by Alex, just above the elbow, where the nerves were healthier.

He couldn't even blame Alex for the excessive drinking. Alex wasn't a complainer, he had a pain threshold that was sky high. He'd experienced a lot of wild injuries in his short life, and had breezed through most of the recoveries. He had been _shot_ in the chest for goodness sake. So if Alex said he was in pain? Yassen couldn't even begin to imagine the kind of agony the boy was in.

He kept rubbing his hand up and down Alex's arm as the boy drifted off, then Alex moaned. Not in pain this time, but in something like relief.

"That feels good," Alex mumbled, voice muffled by the pillow.

Yassen looked down at his hand, resting right above the spot where Alex's healing cut was.

"You can feel this?" He asked, pressing down a little more firmly.

Alex's fingers curled. "Yes."

Yassen's jaw could have hit the floor, if he wasn't so apt at keeping a lid on his emotions. A _month_ now, and Alex hadn't had the slightest sensation in his injured hand, let alone been able to move it. And now? Drunk and dazed, Alex had managed both. He really wished Alex was sober, so he could share the moment. This was _good_. This is what they had been waiting for.

"What about this?" Yassen dug a little deeper, massaging the tender muscle beneath his fingers. "Does this feel okay?"

A small puff of a sigh escaped Alex's lips. He breathed a few words of confirmation. He said nonsensical things like _yes_ , and _good_ , and _please_ , and _don't stop_. He smirked. Now where had Yassen heard those before?

He laughed, pressing down gently but firmly. The reactions he got where almost comical. Alex made soft, wordless noises, whimpering and moaning. Sounds similar to those he would make when they were in bed together; two parts pleasure, one part pain.

Yassen would have been very turned on, if he wasn't so completely consumed by relief. Alex could _feel_. Could _move_. Maybe... maybe he would be just fine.

* * *

 **AN:**

Thanks for reading! I would love to hear your thoughts!


	5. Wires Crossed

/Alex/

Alex woke up with a pounding headache and a desert dry taste in his mouth, like he hadn't a drop of water in thirty days and nights. His tongue felt like coarse sandpaper and his body was smarting all over. He felt irritated and annoyed - in a bad mood, despite knowing he didn't have a right to be. He had stupidly done this to himself.

He was lying in bed, though he couldn't remember ever making it that far last night. Yassen must have come home - he wondered what level of pissed off the assassin had been, finding him in such a state.

He moved to sit up, the blankets covering him almost too heavy. His right arm collapsed painfully under his weight - four and a half weeks with his injury, and he still couldn't quite get used to it. Couldn't adapt. Couldn't work within his new… limitations.

Yassen said it would come with time - thirty five days wasn't all that long, after all, not with an injury of this magnitude - but patience wasn't exactly Alex's strong suit.

He managed to struggle into a semi-seated position, leaning slumped against the wooden headboard. Yassen must have taken the wrap off his arm - the skin was pale and swollen, blue veins popping out. The twin two inch long cuts on the palm and the back of his hand were ugly, scabbed, and red. They itched irritatingly, driving Alex absolutely mental.

Staring at his hand, he attempted the exercise that the doctor had prescribed, as he did every day. Put every ounce of concentration into curling his fingers. Moving his wrist. Just a twitch of the smallest kind would be welcome.

He received all the movement of an ice sculpture.

Nothing.

Alex sighed in defeat. He knew he shouldn't give up, but he had always been a fast healer. (His gunshot wound being exhibit A.) He wasn't used to such a drawn out process. Wasn't used to such a lack of improvement.

"Any better?" The voice was cool - a little annoyed with him, probably - but also held a distinct note of tightness, like the man was waiting for a specific answer. One he already knew.

"No." Was it Alex's imagination, or did Yassen look surprised? It had been the same story every day, why would he expect any different?

Yassen came into the room, a fresh glass of water in hand. "Drink, it'll help." He said it like a suggestion, but Alex knew otherwise. He took the water without complaint, drinking half the glass in one long draught.

He was feeling in more of a 'glass half empty' mood, at the moment.

"Let me see your wrist." Alex smiled to himself, amused at the way Yassen kept trying to pass off his demands as requests. Maybe it was simply impossible for Yassen to not sound commanding for once?

He handed his arm over, which was taken between gentle but meticulous fingers. Alex had joked a few times in the past that Yassen would make an excellent nurse: gentle, but firm, and absolutely no nonsense. Alex was a better patient with Yassen than with any doctor he'd ever had, simply because Yassen demanded it.

His limb was rotated left and right, under a critical eye. A thumb came to rest just above the scabbed wound. Pressure was applied - hard - still, his hand gave no reaction, much to Yassen's very visual disappointment.

Done with his exam, a softer touch was administered. Tender strokes over his inner arm - Alex wished he could feel it.

"What if it doesn't get better?" He asked, in a small voice, the question he had been afraid of speaking for days.

"It will," Yassen spoke with more certainty than Alex had expected; he sounded absolute, not like he was just trying to ease Alex's mind. It didn't sound like false hope at all. How could the man be so sure?

"But what if it doesn't?" Alex needed to know, needed to feel like there was some kind of plan. Needed a sense of security. A safety net. They couldn't stay in this safe house forever. Eventually, money and time would become a factor. Yassen was a hunted man in many places, and Alex hadn't exactly left with MI6's blessing. He needed reassurance that Yassen, at least, knew what they were getting into.

"If it doesn't… we'll figure something out." Not exactly the sentiment Alex was looking for.

* * *

/Yassen/

He trudged up the stairs - feet as close to dragging as they ever were. He was tired. It had been a long and draining night, after he had found Alex.

Glass of water in hand, he entered their shared bedroom. Alex was awake, which was a bit of a relief, and was holding his right arm out in front of him. The look of concentration on his face told Yassen what he was doing.

"Any better?" He asked, trying to hide his anticipation.

Alex looked up, an air of disappointment around him. "No," he answered, sounding defeated.

Yassen tried to hide his frown. Last night, there had been a distinct improvement to Alex's injury. But then, Alex had been drunk out of his mind.

Yassen had read Alex's medical file - a long read, but it couldn't have been called boring. Not in the least. They had just been in preliminary stages of testing, and had been unsure how much of the pain and motor inhibition was caused by the damaged nerves, and how much was psychosomatic.

Yassen was beginning to lean towards the latter.

It seemed that last night, when Alex wasn't in control, when he was mentally absent, his arm had shown the ability to get better, no matter how minuscule. But now, with Alex back in his own brain, his arm was lifeless; only there to serve pain.

In conclusion, it seemed that Alex's arm would continue to be a problem as long as Alex believed it would be.

He sighed, pushing the thoughts aside. Crossing the hardwood floor to Alex's bedside, he handed over the tall glass of water.

"Drink, it'll help," he told Alex. The boy obediently drained half the glass before handing it back to him. He placed it on the bedside table with a soft clink.

Settling on the edge of the bed, duvet wrinkling around him, he watched as Alex unconsciously rubbed at his injured arm. Was it hurting? Probably. Alex tried to keep a brave face on, and Yassen could see that the injury hurt him more often than he let on.

"Let me see your wrist," he reached out, Alex gave him an amused look, but proffered his hand quickly.

A short yet thorough examination of the appendage yielded the same results it always did. Twisting and turning the arm gave no result - even pressing harshly above the wound didn't produce so much as a twitch.

Disappointed, he let Alex's arm rest in his lap - still running hands over it. The rough pads of his fingers scratched up the smooth skin, bumping over the raised scar, traced the life line on the palm of Alex's hand. Yassen could tell by the look on Alex's face - part wistful, part sad - that he couldn't feel a thing.

He watched the dark thoughts encase Alex's mind, culminating. Watched him steal himself before looking up to ask, "What if it doesn't get better?"

Yassen thought for a moment; remembering last night, the improvements that seemed to have disappeared overnight. He thought about telling Alex - saying that it _had_ gotten better.

Ultimately though, he decided against it. Yassen himself had gotten hope from the situation, knowing that improvement was possible, but Alex was different. If Alex knew… it would just make things that much harder.

To know that he _had_ managed what he'd been attempting for weeks, but that he wasn't able to duplicate it, would be frustrating. It wouldn't help. Alex needed to see the improvement's for himself, not be told about them second hand. Seeing is believing, after all.

And even if Alex had did believe what Yassen said, what would he make of it? The show of recovery had happened when Alex was inebriated, the two things were probably connected. Yassen didn't want to give Alex any more reason to hit the bottle.

So instead, he tried to put all his certainty into a simple, two word answer. "It will."

Maybe he hadn't done as good of a job as he needed to - or maybe Alex just needed the reassurance. Big brown eyes stared up at him. "But what if it doesn't?"

If it doesn't… Yassen honestly wasn't sure, which was very unlike him. He always had a plan. And a backup plan. And a backup plan for the backup plan and so on and so forth. But when it came to Alex… it was a shot in the dark. Yassen was an excellent shot, but that didn't mean perfect.

He loved Alex - more than he ever thought he could love anyone, if he was honest. Alex loved him too, but… he also loved being a spy. What would happen if he could never do that again? Alex was young, he should have his whole life ahead of him, but Yassen couldn't help thinking that this was it. This was all Alex would get. A childhood with a neglectful uncle that spent more time training him than entertaining him, a few years of missions that he fought tooth and nail, and now, likely crippled for life.

Any option that Yassen could think of - staying with him, going back to London - none of them were what Alex was looking for. None of them would provide any comfort at the moment.

"If it doesn't… we'll figure something out." Probably still not all that comforting. But it was the best he could do.

* * *

 **AN:**

Thank you for reading! Please review!


	6. Traditional Love Story

Sometimes, he wondered when exactly he had fallen in love with the assassin that had turned his life upside down.

They had been together a long time - longer than Alex had honestly thought they would last. Not always perfect, no. They had the ups and downs of any regular relationship, plus a few bonus additives. The fact that Yassen was an assassin and Alex a spy was always an unspoken conflict between them, despite everything else.

Yet, the fact that Yassen was an assassin made his shows of affection that much sweeter. Yassen had always had a soft spot for Alex, more than was strictly safe or convenient, but he wasn't complaining.

That first year, Yassen had been the enemy. Then he had died - it had taken Alex another year to realize he was still in play. The first time Alex saw him, after Air Force One, was when it began. Page one of their love story.

There were no bullets being taken. Nothing so dramatic, not this time. In fact, for Alex, there had barely even been a mission. For the first time ever, Alex had left his mission unfinished. There went his perfect record.

Not for the first time, Yassen had helped him.

He hadn't asked why Yassen had helped him - he could plainly see. The assassin felt guilty. A very human emotion that he hadn't thought the man capable of for a long while, but there it was. It was easy to see why Yassen would help him.

Alex hadn't even tried to figure out why _he_ wanted to help Yassen in return. That was a bit more complicated.

Yassen felt that it was _his_ fault that Alex ended up in the spying world, and for a long time, Alex had agreed.

Yassen had killed Ian. Alex had hated him for a long time because of that. But eventually… that faded. He could be angry at a lot of people, but in the end it was no one's fault. They were on different sides - it was a job, when it came down to it. It didn't matter who had families, it just mattered who had enemies.

If Yassen hadn't killed Ian, eventually someone else would have. It was a bit hypocritical of Alex to blame Yassen; how many people had he killed, simply because he needed to get a job done? With no regard for their families, their loved ones. For Queen and Country - that didn't make it alright. It just made it a job. They were all just as guilty as the next.

Ian had gone on every mission knowing full and well what the consequences could be. He _chose_ that life. He chose to go on life threatening missions, knowing that he could be orphaning his young nephew at home.

Orphan. It wasn't a term he had ever really associated with himself, growing up. Sure his parents had died and sure he had never known them, but 'orphan' was a word that carried a certain weight. A certain loneliness that Alex never really felt. He'd had Ian who, while not being the _best_ guardian, had truly loved and cared for him. Had taught him and raised him. He'd had Jack.

Orphan wasn't a word he'd used to describe himself, until Jack died. Then he felt the loneliness, and 'orphan' seemed the kind way of putting it.

Then he had met Yassen. Not like the first few times, no - he really _met_ him. Yassen as a person, not an assassin. Not as an enemy agent. The word 'orphan' had quickly phased out of his vocabulary, after that.

It had been six months after Jack's death. He'd been working for MI6 ever since, completely unable to let go of the spy life. It was the only thing that felt normal - that felt familiar - now.

This time, though, he had been with the CIA. America. The Pleasures had been trying to convince him to come live with them for a while, and Alex had taken the job with the CIA mostly for the opportunity to visit them, tell them that he was happy, even if it was a lie. To tell them to forget about him - he would be alright (until he wasn't.)

So he'd been in America. Had left a crying Sabina and two disappointed parents in the past, and he got to work.

They were working with an underground intelligence network - bad guys, in Alex's book, but a necessary evil in this case, or so he'd been told. They were trying to catch someone.

Alex would later look back at this and be annoyed with himself. It seemed obvious, in hindsight, that they had been chasing Yassen. Why else would the CIA call _him_ , of all people? He wasn't an investigator. This mission made little use of his prominent skills. He blatantly been used as bait, and he didn't even know it.

He had been told that Yassen Gregorovich was dead, and had believed it. Simply accepted it. When he found out he was alive, it was a lesson to not be quite so naive.

After he caught up to the CIA's plan of luring Yassen out of hiding, Alex had… well, he ran. Not to get out of danger, but because of some inexplicable urge to keep _Yassen_ out of danger. For some reason, the thought of the CIA capturing Yassen didn't sit well with him. Memories of being waterboarded still haunted him - he wouldn't inflict that on the man that had saved his life.

He had disappeared, hiding in downtown New York. Had contacted MI6, saying he wanted out. Immediate extraction, please and thank you. They had said to hold on, because him running had made things tense with the CIA. They weren't cooperating.

That one was on him, he would admit.

Anyway, he'd been moving around New York - the homeless youth population was high enough that he wasn't questioned - when Yassen had found him. Had been staying the night at a shelter when one of the workers - a nice looking lady with a blond ponytail that smiled more than was strictly necessary - came to him.

Alex Rider? She had asked, voice perky, ponytail bobbing as she tilted her head.

Who's asking? He spoke with an American accent and scowled - Alex had learnt the typical teenage runaway response.

There is a social worker here for you, dear. She had called him _dear_ , which he found funny.

Alex went with her, assuming that MI6 had finally pulled through. He had been nothing short of shocked when Yassen Gregorovich had been standing there. Smartly dressed, but not in a suit. Business casual.

Alex probably should have ran. He hadn't wanted to find Yassen; one, to keep Yassen safe, and two, to keep himself safe. He had no idea where he stood with the assassin, and he hadn't been too excited to find out.

After all, the last time they had seen each other, Yassen had wound up dead. It was possible a grudge could be held.

Instead, and against his better judgement, he followed Yassen and got into the waiting car with him. Yassen had driven in silence; once, that would have unnerved Alex, but at the time he had found it vaguely amusing and just a touch boring. Weren't assassins supposed to be exciting? He remembered staring out the window, wondering if Yassen planned to kill him. Maybe bore him to death?

Luckily, that hadn't been the plan. Ten minutes later, Alex was in an unfamiliar part of the city - New York was quite a large and complicated metropolis. Yassen had led him into a middle class hotel. Alex had looked a little out of place in his days old street clothes, but no one made a fuss.

He had been led to a room on the third floor where he sat down on a slightly lumpy couch next to a burnt out lamp. Yassen had sat across from him in an armchair that looked no more comfortable than the couch.

Yassen had told him that the CIA had thrown quite the fit due to Alex's disappearing act, and were therefore refusing to allow an MI6 team to retrieve him. It could be weeks, Yassen informed him, until the CIA cooled down enough to cooperate.

Then, Yassen had offered him a ride home. They could leave within the week.

Why? Alex had asked. Yassen didn't owe him anything, after all.

Because I know what the CIA were planning, and you put an end to that. A ride home seems like a fair trade.

Payback, Alex had thought. So Yassen _did_ think he owed Alex something. To what extent?

I doubt you would have fallen for whatever plan the CIA thought of, he had stated. Yassen was smart. Somehow, Alex couldn't see Joe Byrne as smarter.

Do you know what the plan was? Yassen had asked, leaning to the side of his chair. Naturally, probably because of his age, Alex hadn't known. No one had told him. Alex shook his head.

They were looking for a high ranking member of Scorpia. They planned on outing your location to them. The few executives left have built Scorpia back up, not to its old standard, but getting there. They knew I was alive, as well. They would have sent me after you.

Why? The question had come naturally. Why did everyone assume he had some kind of hold over the assassin?

Because I couldn't kill you before. They would want to test my loyalty.

Alex had nodded. He'd known that despite his best efforts, Scorpia was persistent. He understood that Yassen had worked for them, and had probably used Scorpia resources to stay underground. It was interesting that after everything - after Alex had nearly gotten Yassen killed - the man was still protecting him. Odder still, that Alex was returning the favour.

Secure in the knowledge that Yassen would neither kill him nor hand him over to Scorpia, he had accepted the offer of a ride. It still meant another few days in the city, but was a better deal than MI6 was offering. Plus, Yassen had made it clear that the hotel room was his to do with as he pleased.

So Alex had spent the next few days hanging out in the hotel room, ordering room service and watching telly. Occasionally he made use of the gym and pool.

Yassen hadn't slept in the room, instead booking the suite next door. Sometimes he heard walking through the thin walls. Sometimes classical music - Alex thought Yassen played it when he was on the phone, so he wouldn't be overheard. Aside from these few signs of life, the assassin also seemed to want to keep an eye on Alex, at least a bit. Had come and gone from Alex's room multiple times a day for no particular reason. None that were obvious to Alex, at least.

It wasn't until the third day that Alex addressed the man. He had slowly become accustomed to the man's presence, let his guard down a little. Had been lying in bed watching television when Yassen had entered, and had offhandedly asked the assassin if he could fetch him a glass of water, please? The same way he might have asked Jack, once upon a time.

He remembered the microsecond where Yassens stoney facial expression broke for a moment. Something like amusement or surprise or confusion or all of the above. Alex had realized that he had just asked a world renowned, international assassin to fetch him water, like a waiter - but Yassen had already moved. Gone to the sink and passed Alex a glass of fresh water.

Alex had smiled and thanked him, slightly embarrassed, receiving a nod in return. Then Yassen had commented - of all things - on the trashy television show he was watching. Some American teenage drama, Alex didn't even remember what it was anymore. Yassen had told him the show would melt his brain. Alex had laughed. The ice had broken.

Afterwards, it was like the mood had shifted. Perhaps neither of them had known where they stood with the other, perhaps they still didn't, but now they were less stilted. More at ease. The next couple days had been comfortable between them.

The ride home hadn't been what Alex expected, though he wasn't sure _what_ he had thought it would be. Yassen had ordered a taxi - Alex didn't know what happened to the car he had driven before - and had directed the driver to the airport.

They had walked in, right past the security. Bypassing all the regular measures and had went unopposed onto the tarmac. A helicopter had been waiting for them. Yassen was an excellent pilot.

Alex had sat cross legged in the passenger seat as they turned over the Atlantic. The ocean had been a perfect blue that day, bleeding neatly into the clear sky.

Alex had flown before, in a number of different aircrafts, but it was still a novel experience to him. He remembered looking around, wide eyed, smiling at the view.

Want to learn? Yassen had asked, startling Alex out of his admiration. He had glanced at the man in the pilot seat, questioning.

To fly? Yassen had elaborated. Alex had responded with a strong _yes_.

The ride home was considerably more interesting after that. Yassen spoke more in the next hour than he had, maybe his whole life. He had spoken out loud, dictating everything he did. Explaining the buttons and switches and throttles. Then, he had let Alex steer.

They had discovered, of all things, a shared love of flying. The freedom was intoxicating. The ability to control one's path, to go anywhere.

Sometimes Alex wondered when exactly he had fallen in love with Yassen Gregorovich. When he did, this moment came to mind.

Logically, Alex knew he hadn't fallen in love so quickly or so easily. He and Yassen hadn't gotten together for another eight months after that flight home. But it was a nice story, Alex thought. Finding love among the clouds and summer breeze, high above a tranquil sea.

* * *

 **AN:**

Hope you enjoyed! Let me me know in the reviews!


	7. Burn Your Bridges

MI6 left them alone for… longer than Alex had expected.

They were more than used to his sudden disappearances, so his escape from the hospital, while unwelcome, was hardly surprising. In fact, Alex often snuck away from the hospital and his usual MI6 surveillance - sometimes to meet Yassen, other times just to get away. He usually came back once he was feeling better, feeling up to work.

But when it became clear that this time Alex wasn't coming back, they acted. Alex was a security risk, after all. They couldn't leave him with enough resources to run too far.

* * *

It was late at night. Stormy, dark - one of the first real signs of bad weather Alex had seen in this place. It had put him in a foul mood. It had also made it difficult for him to sleep - the air felt charged with electricity.

It must have been past midnight, but Alex thought that it was equivalent to early morning in England.

So he was lying in bed, Yassen had passed out next to him over an hour ago, but Alex was still wide awake. He stared up through the blackness at the ceiling, shadows dancing above him every time lightning flashed outdoors.

A harsh rattling noise sounded, almost masked by a bout of thunder. Looking to the bedside table, he saw his phone had lit up, a new notification.

He leaned over Yassen, careful not to wake him, to slide his phone off the bedside table. Immediately turning the brightness down, he glared at the notification.

His bank account, it seems, had been disabled.

Seconds later, his screen lit up with a phone call. _Smithers_.

Alex slipped out from under the covers, carefully keeping the cold air on the outside of the sheets. He awkwardly crawled past his bedmates sleeping form. Yassen stayed lightly asleep, Alex didn't want to disturb him.

Once on solid ground, he looked around for a place to go. He would take the call downstairs, but he still had trouble navigating the steps, especially after bad days. He didn't want to fall - again. Instead, he went to the glass double doors, pulling the curtains back a tad. He slipped out to the balcony, getting doused in rain water instantly.

He answered the phone, trying to sound sure and confident, but merely managed a timid _hello_? He hoped the thunder masked his nervousness.

 _Alex, old chap, listen close, we haven't got long._

Alex nodded. "Okay," he called down the receiver, voice steadier, raised over the crackling thunder.

 _MI6 aren't pleased with your little Houdini act, old chap. They've come to the decision that you aren't coming back, they're cutting you off._

"I know, I got the bank notification," he said.

 _But it is more than that -_ Smithers continued, rushing now - _they've burned you_.

The call disconnected, then his phone blacked out. He didn't bother trying to turn it back on again, he knew what being burned meant. His phone would be disconnected, his passport would be invalidated, his money transferred and his house repossessed. Everything that was his or his uncles would be taken, locked up with the key thrown away.

Alex stood there, in the rain, taking up a vigil of silence. His options were getting fewer.

Leaning forward, Alex placed his elbows on the balcony railing and rested his head on his hands. He wondered if he could manage the stairs after all, if he could sneak past Yassen to pour himself a drink. The thought was tempting.

"Alex?" He looked up, over his shoulder. His hopes of sneaking down for a drink were dashed.

Yassen had appeared in the doorway, looking entirely underdressed in the surrounding thunderstorm. He was topless and barefoot, wearing grey jogging bottoms. He looked sleepy, antithetical to how he usually looked.

"Sorry," Alex said, straightening up. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Yassen stepped forward, brushing warm fingers through Alex's ruffled hair. "It's alright. What's going on?" Yassen nodded to the cellphone in Alex's hand.

He shook his head, a little despairingly. "I don't think I'm going back to Chelsea anytime soon. MI6 cut me off."

"Burned you?" Yassen sounded a little startled, like he hadn't expected '6 to write off one of their best agents. Thing is, Alex clearly wasn't an agent anymore.

"Yeah, guess they figured I either wasn't coming back or I couldn't."

They wouldn't want a rogue agent running around with a bank full of cash and a phone full of connections. Alex may not be much of a physical threat anymore, but he knew plenty about the inner workings of MI6. They would want to limit his resources while they tried to track him down.

It would have been a smart plan, had Alex been alone. If he'd been off by himself, the sudden lack of resources would probably get him caught sighing a few weeks. Especially injured.

Unlucky for them that Yassen had plenty of resources for the pair of them.

Yassen looked thoughtful - or maybe just tired - and eventually gestures for Alex to come inside. "This can be a problem for tomorrow. Right now, you need sleep."

Alex nodded, taking Yassens outstretched hand. "What did I ever do to deserve you?" He asked, only half joking. Yassen had been unbelievably good to him. He _didn't_ deserve it.

* * *

It wasn't until the next morning - the rain having stopped and Alex's head feeling clearer - that the implications hit him. Maybe he had been in a bit of shock last night, but that had worn off.

He had been _burned_. Everything he had was gone. His childhood home, everything he had grown up with. His legal identity ceased to exist.

More than that, MI6 had decided he was a lost cause. They either figured he _wasn't_ coming back, or they didn't _want_ him back. They knew the extent of his injuries - they must know the odds of him ever being up to agent standards again.

It put an odd lump in his throat, knowing that MI6 had lost faith in him. Logically he knew that he most likely wouldn't have gone back to MI6, whether he had improved or not. Logically, he knew that MI6 burning him affected him little. Yassen would take care of him, he knew that. Plus he had siphoned off plenty of his money into offshore accounts, so he wasn't broke.

Logically, he knew he would be fine without '6. Logically, he knew they wouldn't be able to track him down, not with Yassen's connections.

Logically, logically, logically, _logically_.

Alex wasn't feeling overly _logical_ at the moment. In fact, he was feeling rather emotional.

MI6 had been a part of his life for years now. He may not have always liked them, but that didn't mean he didn't miss what they had offered. Alex's drinking problem was his most obvious addiction, but he had been an adrenaline junkie long before that. He felt like someone had just cut off his supply. Like he had come home to find his stash flushed down the toilet.

Not for the first time, Alex wished he had made a different decision when he'd been dangling off that building. That, instead of allowing himself to be pulled up, he had let go. It seemed to him that a six story fall was the less messy option. Not painless, but at least it would have been quick.

Now, he was faced with the question _what the hell was he supposed to do now?_ Clearly being a spy wasn't an option anymore. And what the hell else did he want to do? What _could_ he do? He was supposed to have his whole life ahead of him…

Alex felt the lump in his throat sink to a pit in his stomach. His head was spinning. He suddenly felt like he was going to cry or puke or pass out maybe all of the above.

What the _hell_ was he supposed to _do?_

* * *

/Yassen/

Alex was already awake, he could tell before he even opened his eyes. His breathing was harsher than it would be in sleep (other than, perhaps, during a nightmare) and judging by the slope of the mattress, he wasn't lying down. If Yassen had to guess, he would say Alex had taken up a spot curled against the headboard.

Cracking and eye, he saw his guess was correct. Alex had his knees tucked under his chin, arms hugging his shins close, eyes half closed with a glassy sheen that suggested tears being held at bay.

He felt a pang of sadness, knowing immediately where Alex's mind was.

He had thought that Alex was holding it together suspiciously well last night. That phone call - MI6 burning him - none of it had seemed to affect Alex. Yassen had been expecting a far different reaction; something closer to this, really.

Alex had taken a lot of blows in the last few months, physically and mentally. First the injury, then the pain. The knowledge that he was unlikely to get much better, the frustration that came with a lack of improvement.

In all fairness, Alex had kept it together pretty well. At a young age, his entire life had been ripped away. Maybe it wasn't the life he _wanted_ , but it was the only one he knew. Losing it should have hit him like a truck.

Yassen suspected that a large contributing factor to Alex having _not_ completely lost it yet was their isolation. Far from England and France and anything to remind him of the traumatic incident. With just Yassen for company, it was probably easier for Alex not to dwell on what had happened. To focus on getting better.

Yassen didn't think that the fact that Alex would never be able to work for MI6 had quite sunk in. Alex knew in his head that his injury would keep him out of the field, but he hadn't emotion accepted it. Getting burned… that drove the point home in a way that was both brutal and effective.

Now, it seemed that Alex was trying to come to terms with it.

He gave Alex a moment, wondering what conclusion the boy would land on. But when Alex's expression went from scared and confused to simply… lost, Yassen decided to intervene.

"Alex?" Alex blinked, tears disappearing slightly. Blond hair rustled as he turned to look at Yassen. "What are you thinking?"

Alex opened his mouth hesitantly. His jaw trembled a bit, like he was cold and trying to keep his teeth from chattering. "I… I'm never going to be a spy again." He said it like both a statement and a question.

"No, Alex," Yassen didn't see the point in extending false hope. "You won't."

He had thought, for a time, that Alex might recover. That night when he had come home to an intoxicated but also semi-improved Alex had been a beacon. But that had been the only sign of recovery - Yassen had almost pushed the event to the back of his mind.

He had hoped, for a time, that Alex might recover. But he had always known that he would never recover fully. That MI6 wouldn't put him back in the field. They had always been callous with life, particularly Alex's, but even they would see little advantage to keeping Alex as an agent.

Alex took a deep, shaky breath. He blinked furiously. "What am I going to _do?_ " He sounded oh so lost. It was heartbreaking.

Yassen sat up, letting the duvet fall. He reached out hesitant, unsure if contact would be appreciated right now, but Alex let him rest a hand on his shaking shoulder.

"There are options, Alex. You're young and bright, you will excel at anything you set your mind to."

Alex frowned, and in a split second his lost look of sorrow was replaced with fiery anger. He snapped his head around to look at Yassen.

"How can you possibly say that?" He asked, voice blazing with an energy he hadn't had in weeks. "How can you possibly say that I can be anything I want to be - I have _never_ gotten to choose what I wanted to be. My whole fucking life has revolved around being a _bloody_ spy. I will _never_ be as good at anything as I was at being a spy. And I'll never be a spy again."

He wasn't wrong. Trained up from the moment he could walk by an uncle who was a spy. A spy for a father, an assassin for a boyfriend, every _normal_ person in his life either pushed away or dead. MI6 that had plucked him out of school, ruined his education, and made it impossible for Alex to live a normal life. It really did seem like Alex had few other options.

Yassen wasn't sure how to comfort Alex - the truth seemed harsh, but lies never worked. "That doesn't mean your life is over, Alex. You are alive."

"What is the point?" Alex's voice was practically acidic. "God- what is the _bloody point_ , Yassen?"

Alex was crying now. Yassen almost felt like doing the same.

 _What is the point of my life if not for spying? What is the point of living? Why should I even bother anymore?_

Not the kind of talk Yassen wanted to hear from Alex; nor the kind of talk he ever thought he _would_ hear from Alex.

"Were you happy?" He asked, voice matching Alex's for fire. "With MI6, were you happy?"

Alex opened his mouth to answer, but Yassen beat him to the punch.

"No, you weren't. You were _addicted_ , but not happy. You _hated_ MI6. You came back from every mission beaten to hell, with nightmares and panic attacks and dozens of scars to show for it. It was only a matter of time before something like _this_ ," he gestured to Alex's bandaged arm, "happened. The only wonder is how it didn't happen sooner."

Alex clenched his teeth. "Are you saying I had it coming?"

"No," Yassen sat up straighter, looking at Alex intently. "I'm saying that you've gotten through all this _shit_ before, and you'll do it again. This is just the latest in a long line of ringer's that MI6 have put you through. And maybe it can even be the _last._ I'm _saying_ that we can get through this."

The tears rushed down Alex's face even faster. "But what's the _point_ of getting through it?" Alex's voice cracked.

Yassen sighed, pulling Alex closer. Pulled the boy right to his side and hugged him tight. He pressed a fierce kiss to the top of his head. " _That_ is something you'll have to figure out on your own."

* * *

 **AN:**

Reviews are very welcome! Let me know your thoughts.


	8. Build a Boat

**AN:** This chapter is rated M for male/male sex.

* * *

Usually, when Alex had a bad day, Yassen was kind and supportive. Helpful. The assassin didn't exactly _tiptoe_ around him, but close enough. Today though, Yassen was _not_ having it. Not in the slightest.

"Go away," Alex mumbled, pulling the tangle of sheets up over his head.

"No," was Yassen's blunt reply. "Stop being a child. Get out of bed."

"I want to _sleep_." Or sulk, whatever. Alex thought he was entitled.

"Too bad." Apparently, Yassen didn't agree.

Sighing in defeat, he pushed the covers away and sat up, expression petulant. He crossed his arms, just to further show his annoyance. Yassen - equally as stubborn and with far more energy to push his agenda - held out a hand pointedly. Alex grabbed it with great reluctance, and was unceremoniously launched out of the warm confines of his bed.

* * *

" _What_ exactly are we doing?" Alex asked as Yassen led him into the expansive backyard.

"Wait." Yassen held up a hand, palm out. Alex halted in his tracks, watching as Yassen disappeared quickly around the house.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, idly rubbing at his wrapped up arm. The sun was nice, at least. It was beginning to make him drowsy. Alex hadn't really been outside much in the past weeks - he had almost forgotten what natural light was like.

After his little (not actually that little) breakdown yesterday, he had wanted nothing more than to mope in bed for about a year. Give or take. Yassen indulged him for a bit (twenty four hours - yippee) before firmly telling him to get his arse out of bed and into gear.

It was nice, actually. Being outside. He was almost grateful for Yassen's insistence. Not that he would tell _him_ that. The assassin already thought he was always right, Alex didn't need to fuel the fire.

"Heads!"

Alex snapped his head up, shocked out of his musings, eyes wide. A dark shadow entered his peripheral vision, and Alex whipped around to see it, just in time to get smacked square in the face.

He stumbled back, tripping over his own feet and falling with a thud on his rear end. He brought one hand up to his face, rubbing his nose. Looking up, he glared at the culprit. Yassen stood not far away, looking smug.

"Need a hand?" The assassin asked with half a smirk, offering to help him up.

Alex tried to keep a straight face, but cracked a smile. "Idiot," he huffed, accepting the help up.

Yassen pulled him to his feet, giving him a soft kiss on the nose (that was surely red from the hit.) Then the assassin jogged away, after the object that had been launched at him. The man turned around - dribbling a football.

"Why?" Alex asked, his voice breathy with exasperation.

Far from deteriorated Yassen smiled and kicked the ball up, it landed a few feet forward. Yassen continued forward, tapping the ball along.

"There is a lot of things you can't do anymore, Alex. Lots of things that will take a long time to come back. But there are still things you can do." Yassen kicked the football firmly towards him.

Alex stuck his foot out, stopping the ball dead in its tracks - more on instinct than any desire to play the game.

"Come on," Yassen nodded at him like a challenge, taking a few paces back.

He couldn't help but look at Yassen like he was mad. Yassen Gregorovich was a world renowned assassin. A terrorist. He _killed_ people for a living. And here he was, stood across a crisply mowed open lawn, a soft half-smile on his face.

Yassen Gregorovich - who could be called a murderer - wanted to play a game of football.

Alex couldn't quite wrap his head around that.

Looking down, he rolled the ball between his foot and the ground. The black and white pattern was stark against the lush green grass. The spherical shape was familiar underfoot. It brought back memories of Tom, his friends from Brooklands. Jack and sometimes Ian cheering him on from the edge of the field. Jack would wear her ridiculously large floppy sun hat. Ian wore thick sunglasses, one hand always stuck in his coat pocket.

Tom would be beside him - or ahead or behind. _Pass it here, mate! Nice shot, Alex!_

He found himself smiling unconsciously, and made an effort to wipe the emotion from his face. He was supposed to be annoyed with Yassen, after all. Rolling the ball forward a bit, he took a step back. Lined up, stepped forward again, planting one foot. Then - with all the power he could muster - kicked the ball directly at Yassen.

It flew perfectly at chest height, and Yassen caught it with a surprised ' _oof_ '.

Alex laughed. "Hand-ball."

* * *

Alex collapsed on the grass, sides heaving (both from exertion and laughter.) His muscles ached - but in the pleasant kind of way that signified a long day of exercise. For once, the pain was welcome.

Yassen flopped down next to him with less than his usual grace, one hand flung up to shield his eyes from the sun. They were both sweaty and grinning like idiots. Yassen reached across the space between them, snatching up his good hand.

"You," Yassen started, breath slowly coming back, "Are _very_ good."

Alex smiled in reply, squeezing Yassens hand as tightly as he could.

Yassen continued. "See what I mean? You don't have to be a spy. There is still plenty you can do."

Alex ignored the pang in his heart when he thought about never spying again. He pushed the feeling away, propping himself up on his good elbow. All that could be a problem for later. Right now he didn't want to be a spy. He didn't want to rock climb or water ski or parasail. All he wanted right now was Yassen.

"You were right, as always," he conceded, leaning forwards. "In fact, I can think of something _else_ I can still do…"

Yassen smiled and reached up to cup the back of his head. Alex let himself be pulled into a long kiss.

"Some _thing_ else?" Yassen asked, smiling against his lips.

Alex hummed in response. He used his good arm to maneuver himself up until he was straddling Yassen's hips. When Yassen's lips met his, he felt all the worries of the past weeks strip away.

"I love you." _I love you, I love you_.

* * *

Yassen sat up, running a hand up Alex's chest. He was still straddling Yassen, sitting on his lap while their lips fought for dominance. His right hand rested on the man's shoulder while his left tangled in fair hair. Hands were trailing up his thighs, his back, his arms. Under his shirt, pulling up and tossing the article onto the grass.

Yassen kissed him with a thoroughness that left him breathless. The older man stood, Alex wrapping his legs around Yassen's hips to help keep him aloft. They moved towards the house. The next thing he knew, he was being lowered onto the couch, back door still wide open, sunlight creeping across the wooden floor.

Then Yassen was on top of him. Alex reached over Yassen's shoulder, grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked it right over his head. Kisses were pressed down his neck and his bare chest before finding lips once again.

Hands drifted down Alex's stomach, catching in the loops of his jeans. The single button was expertly undone, and practiced hands unzipped and divested Alex of his trousers and pants.

Alex returned the favour - a little clumsier with just one hand, but he got the job done.

The air was warm, as it always was, and removing their clothes did little to stay the heat. Especially with them so close together now, body heat mixing between them, hot breath on each others cheeks.

Yassen's fingers were in his mouth, they were slightly salty from sweat, but also tasted like sunlight and summer. Then the hand moved down and Alex gasped as the first exploratory finger pushed in with little warning.

They hadn't done this in a while, which is probably why Yassen was taking his time to prepare him. He didn't think there had ever been such a large gap of time between them doing this, even with all the long missions.

Three fingers were moving inside him now, and Alex's heart was stuttering in time with Yassen's ministrations. He mumbled in disappointment when the fingers were removed, but quickly shut up when he felt Yassen maneuver himself over him.

His breath was baited. He was seconds away from telling Yassen to _get on with it, please_ when the man pushed forward, hips thrusting. Alex bit his lip, insides burning with pleasure and pain. His fingers tightened in Yassen's hair, then ran down his back, seeking purchase.

His toes curled with the feel of Yassen's thick, hot member moving inside of him. Alex felt like his entire body was on fire - each and every nerve (broken or otherwise) sending sparks of electricity through him.

Alex moaned along with Yassen's groans, arching his back against the couch cushions. Yassen wrapped an arm under his back, propping him to just the right angle.

Yassen buried his face in the crook of Alex's neck, and Alex squeezed his eyes shut, tilting his head back, mouth desperatly parted for air. Lips and teeth brushed the side of his neck, up to his pulse point. Alex was certain Yassen could feel _exactly_ how erratic his heart was through his soft lips.

They moved against each other - making love, kissing and caressing every bit of skin they could reach. To Alex, it was like coming home. Like remembering _why_ they loved each other and _why_ they worked so well together. Despite all the trials, the anger and resentment of the last few months, he always had Yassen. Always and forever.

It washed away all the worries, the stress and panic and pain. It felt like everything would be okay as long as he had Yassen.

Yassen pushed his tongue into Alex's mouth. It was like the kiss of life, sharing breath. Moans passed between them.

Then their forehead's were pressed together, the tips of their noses touching. They weren't kissing - both of them too close to summon that kind of coordination.

Yassen mumbled something - Alex thought it was his name, but then Yassen was coming hard inside of him and Alex couldn't find the brain power to think. His mind went blank as he came seconds later, gasping and shuddering and pulling Yassen closer.

Yassen kissed him, still deep inside him. He wrapped his legs around Yassen, keeping him close. Alex smiled into the kiss, running his hands up Yassen's back and into his hair, fingers tugging gently at the roots, nails scratching. His mind was a whirlwind, coming down from an insurmountable high.

Yassen froze, then pulled back slightly, parted mouth hovering just above Alex's lips. Alex blinked in confusion, tilting his head.

" _Alex_ ," Yassen's voice was low and disbelieving.

Alex furrowed his brow, "Hmm?" Was all he could manage to articulate, brain still too far in oblivion.

Instead of answering, Yassen sat up slightly more, pulling carefully out of Alex's body. He reached his hands up to where Alex's hands were in his hair, grabbing hold of both of them. He intertwined their fingers, resting one set of hands on either side of Alex's head.

Alex's eyes widened in comprehension. He tilted his head to the right, looking at the hand pinned beneath Yassen's own. Puckered scar visible on his wrist, peeking out of the bandage that was coming undone, fingers curled against the back of Yassen's hand.

He stared for a moment, trying to tap into the well of bravery inside him. He summoned what courage he had to the surface, closed his eyes, and squeezed.

When he flickered his eyes open again, Yassen's hand was turning white with the force he gripped it in. He loosened his hold, watching his fingers relax; tension draining from the muscles on command.

He looked up at Yassen, eyes watering. He smiled ear to ear, bottom lip trembling. Yassen squeezed back - and Alex _felt it_.

He laughed with relief, pushing Yassen up so they were sitting and tackling him with a _two armed_ hug. He pushed Yassen onto his back, pressing his face to a strong chest. Tears were flowing freely, Alex couldn't tell if he was laughing or sobbing anymore.

He pressed his cheek against Yassen's heartbeat, feeling the pounding a little faster than normal. Yassen's arms were around him, holding him tight with no sign of letting go.

"I love you."

Alex let out a shuddering sob. "I love you, too."

* * *

 **AN:**

Please review - let me know what you've liked, what you want to see, or just if you have been enjoying the story.

Thanks to everyone who has favourited and followed and reviewed, it means a lot to me.

See you next chapter for the finale!


	9. Up to Scratch

"Again," Yassen's voice was calm and commanding in a way that Alex associated with him alone.

"You're a real hard ass, you know?" Alex grinned despite himself, opening and closing his fingers on command, hand shaking with the effort.

Rings of fabric were looped tight around his right hand's fingertips, thick elastics stretching between them. They went taught every time he flexed his fingers, adding resistance to the already difficult motion.

His fingers were trembling with exertion by the time he finished the rep. His hand muscles shook and twitched involuntarily. Yassen took his hand and helped detangle him from the mess of bands. Taking Alex's hand between practiced fingers, Yassen massaged the sore muscles and tendons until the shaking ceased.

He brought the aching appendage up and gave the back of Alex's hand a soft kiss. Alex smiled widely. He had been doing that a lot lately, smiling - he had almost thought that he had forgotten how.

"You're getting a lot better," Yassen was bordering on a smile as well, which Alex took as a victory bigger than his hand improvement. "Faster than your medical file suggested."

His medical file had 'suggested' that he might not get better at all, so yes, Alex would say he was beating the odds. But what else is new?

Alex intertwined their fingers, relishing in the fact that he had the ability to do so. "Well, I'm guessing the doctor's ideas of P.T. weren't half as extensive as yours."

"I do believe in being thorough." Yassen nodded solemnly.

Alex hummed. "Yes, you do."

Alex reached to where Yassen was kneeling on the floor in front of him. The man rolled his eyes, but allowed himself to be pulled up onto the couch. Alex squirmed and maneuvered Yassen until he lay against Yassen's chest. They kept holding hands, Alex played with Yassen's fingers.

"Tomorrow," Yassen said, breath brushing past his ear, "If you can do that again, then I have a surprise for you."

Alex wiggled, settling further against Yassen's broad chest. "Hmm, mysterious."

* * *

The next morning found Alex sprawled in bed, blankets pulled up to his ears, chest against the mattress. Yassen had rolled out of the warm confines minutes before, wordlessly making his way downstairs. Meanwhile, Alex was far too comfortable to bother following. No, he was much more inclined to wait for Yassen to come back.

He didn't so much _hear_ Yassen return as _feel_ it. That sixth sense letting him know when he wasn't alone. He peeked over the folds of the sheets - Yassen stood in the doorway, elastic contraption in hand, dangling ominously.

"Ready?" He asked, eyebrow raised.

* * *

/Yassen/

Alex pouted, burrowing deeper under the covers, but stuck his hand out and allowed Yassen to attach the bands around his fingers. He kept hold of Alex's wrist, feeling the healing tendons and muscles shift under soft skin.

Alex surfaced from his cocoon of blankets, quickly adopting an attitude of all business. He watched concentration furrow Alex's brow. He let Alex do his repetitions until a bead of sweat dotted his forehead. He kept a silent tally in his head, and mentally cheered when Alex hit the mark (and then did one more rep, just to show off.)

He turned his brown eyes up at Yassen, grinning. "So, I did it," he cocked his head, batting his eyelashes jokingly "What's my prize?"

Yassen sat down on the bed, pulled the covers back, leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to Alex's lips. Then did it again. Alex wrapped his hands around Yassen's neck, and suddenly things weren't so chaste anymore.

"Oh I'll give you a prize…"

* * *

/Alex/

He laughed as Yassen dragged him down the stairs - his hand still ached, but being with Yassen was… a good distraction. The pain must have been at least partly psychosomatic, because he could almost forget all about it when Yassen touched him.

He was led out to the back garden, into the bright sunlight. His eyes roamed the yard, resting on a few objects stacked by the fence. He tugged at Yassen's arm and raised an eyebrow.

Yassen gave him a kiss, and when Alex opened his eyes, Yassen was holding a small caliber handgun. He gestured across the lawn to the targets he had set up.

"Your hand has gotten better," Yassen answered, "Good enough, I think, for this."

Alex bit the inside of his cheek. "They said I'd never shoot a gun again…"

" _They_ ," Yassen started, "don't know shit all about you."

"That sounded like a compliment."

"The highest one I can think of," Yassen pulled him forward, arms wrapping around him. "Besides, those doctors got - what? A week? - to examine you. Nerve injuries are different for everyone. They predicted the most likely outcome, but they can't have known everything. And you have the luck of the devil."

And maybe a guardian angel as well, Alex thought, looking up at Yassen, framed in sunlight.

Alex grinned and turned to aim at the targets, Yassen's hands covering his own, keeping them steady. He went through the motions - pleasantly surprised that his torn muscles still had memory.

It was a bit awkward, with his injury. He could feel the cool metal of the gun pressed against the puckered scar on his palm, and for a second worried that the kickback would reopen them. But the wound had long since closed, stitches removed, and Yassen thought he was ready for this, so he pushed the thoughts aside.

"Gently," Yassen whispered into his ear, free hand running lightly up his side. Alex tried not to be distracted by that, but Yassen didn't make it easy.

Slowly, with more care than Alex had ever bothered using, he pressed down on the trigger. The gun recoiled - but not painfully - and the bullet was spat across the yard.

Alex frowned, lowering the gun.

"I missed."

"You're out of practice," Yassen rested his chin on Alex's shoulder, bring the gun up again and positioning him a little further left. The bullet had whizzed right past the target, leaving a sizeable hole in the fence. Wood chips scattered amid the grass. Alex was glad that they had no neighbors for miles. "Try again."

He tried again. And again. And again.

* * *

/time skip/

Alex reached up and undid the knot at the back of his head, letting the black blindfold fall around his neck. The sun was bright, and he blinked a few times consecutively to adjust. When his eyes focused, they landed on his near-perfect cluster of bullet holes, all grouped around the bullseye and center ring.

Satisfied with the day's training, he turned to see Yassen. The man was casually reclined on a porch swing, eyes closed to the sun. Asleep. Alex had no idea how he managed to fall asleep to the sound of gunfire.

He walked up the wooden steps to the porch, sitting next to Yassen on the swing, setting it in motion. Yassen seamlessly flowed from asleep to awake - so quickly that Alex was left to question if he had really been sleeping in the first place - blue eyes opening, expression clearing, posture straightening. Ice chip eyes settled on Alex, then glanced across the yard at the paper targets. Alex felt a rush of warmth (that had little to do with the sun) when Yassen smiled with approval.

"Left or right?" Yassen asked, wrapping an arm around him.

"Alternated," Alex answered. He displayed both hands as if there was evidence on them - aside from a microscopic building of his callous', he didn't see any change. (Yassen's keen and well practiced eyes might see more.)

Over the weeks, his right hand had become significantly stronger. It still trembled, sometimes. He still had bad days when pain seeped into his muscles - it wasn't fun, but it also wasn't debilitating anymore.

Moreover, time between those painful episodes became larger. In parallel, his range of motion was increasing. His muscles getting more and more used to obeying his commands. Muscle memory was a powerful thing; Alex always did have a good memory.

Yassen had helped him use a gun again - had let him have a go at nearly every projectile weapon in his extensive arsenal. Handguns, rifles, throwing knives, even a bow and arrow - all things Alex had accepted he would never use again. It was nice to be proven wrong.

After his injury had healed substantially and Alex had demonstrated a competent ability with the guns, Yassen took to a harder training regimen. He said there was no reason Alex shouldn't be able to get up to par in shooting. In fact, he saw no reason that Alex couldn't get up to par in everything he used to be able to do.

It had been good physical therapy for his hand, and had also occupied his mind. It had reminded him - not in a painful way - about being a spy. It reminded him of what he could do, and it didn't stop there.

Yassen pushed him into combat training. Alex quickly fell back into karate, and Yassen was teaching him other forms of fighting. He got rather comfortable with knives.

A handful of weeks under Yassen's tutelage had him shooting just as well with his left as he ever had with his right. Throwing knives was just as natural to him as throwing a frisbee. He spent just as much time working on roundhouse kicks with Yassen as he did kicking a football around with him.

The doctors said that a full recovery would be 'nearly impossible'. But to Alex, and Yassen as well, 'impossible' just means 'try again'. And again. And again. They were trying, and Alex would dare say they were succeeding.

Before, the few good days he had made the bad days seem worse in comparison. Now, the bad days were few and far between - and they just made him that much more thankful for the good days.

The setbacks didn't set him back nearly as much as they would have a few months ago. Old blows faded like scars - not gone, but not painful either. The thought of MI6 burning him didn't make him feel loss or anger, but simply determination. Determined to prove them wrong.

Maybe his hand would never be perfect again, but he didn't need perfect. He just needed to beat the odds. The doctors said seventy-five percent? Well, Alex was going to get seventy-six just to spite them.

MI6 had dropped him when they thought he was unfixable. They had decided that if Alex wasn't coming back, it was safer to cut their losses - as easy as slicing the strings of a marionette doll. Never mind all that Alex had done for the agency. He had become both useless to them, and a threat. They couldn't use him as an agent, and he simply knew too much to be allowed free range.

Alex had never been more than a valuable operative, and when even that fragile position had changed, they had decided he was more trouble than he was worth. Well - Alex looked at his near perfect cluster of bullet holes - they might just come to regret that.

* * *

 **AN:**

This has been the final chapter of _The King is Dead_ , but look forward to the sequel coming soon: _Long Live the King._ If you want to be the first to know when I've posted it, make sure you are following my page.

Thank you so much to everyone that has read, followed, favourited and reviewed this story. Please take the time to leave a review on the way out! Also, feel free to PM me if you want an in depth answer.

Let me know what you've liked, what you would like to see in the sequel, or even just one word to let me know you've enjoyed the story.

Thank you again!


	10. LONG LIVE THE KING

A final thank you to everyone that as read, followed, favourited, and reviewed.

The first two chapter's of _Long Live the King_ is out. Updates may be slow to start as I try to pre-write some chapters.

And for those of you that also read my story _The Nights We Remember_ , I have posted a new chapter there too.

Thank you once again! Hope to hear from all of you in my new stories.


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